Monday, February 11, 2008

voices

prophet of doom, sage of sadness
prognosticator extraordinaire
cheer up you son of a bitch
your a fucking american
for god's sake

oh my god i can't believe you said that!
pissing on my pity parade
what gives you the right
to rain on my rainy day
bitch!

major malfunction
what a fucking brat!
got everything, needs nothing
wants to lie around and wallow
in a self effacing pile of imagined crap

what do you know?
you're not inside my head
you can't possibly understand
i'm depressed.... suicidal....
i have a fucking prescription!

wake up and smell the fucking roses!
you privilaged piece of dog shit!
you fancy yourself
the downtrodden artist
on the verge of death
yet all the while
you salve your imagined wounds
with cabernet sauvignon
and pour out your soul
on your fucking macintosh

who gives a fuck
that you spent too much
on your american express?
nobody with real problems
that's for sure

who cares
that your collection
of 12 year old scotch
is leading you to alcoholism?
not the rest of us drunks

you whine and complain and loathe life
all in the name of art
you fancy yourself the starving artist
while you buy in bulk
at fucking costco

i'm sick to death
at listening to your insipid rhymes
begging your readers to feel your pain
hiding behind a facade of depravity
in your barcalounger

for all of our sakes
pull the fucking trigger!
either shit or get off
the proverbial pot
you privilaged little fuck!

don't act like you know me
don't even start to imagine
don't think you can overtake
the voices in my head
you can kiss my ass!

© 2008 BY W GARY FORRESTER

4 comments:

Ali said...

I haven't said much to anyone lately...I'm sorry for that...Pain is pain no matter who cares or not. It's your own, it's not quantifiable, and it's real. I care. This was good. Ali

ozymandiaz said...

AMEN! Rage on my friend. We are often too involve in the pettiness of life to realize the benefit of a life with time for pettiness. i.e. there are no daily threats to life by bomb or bullit.

rick mobbs said...

I know this voice, this conversation, this unruliness. The poem lifts a window and the flapping curtain draws my attention to a deathly painful time. I agree with Oz... rage on, rage on, do not go gently...

Miss Britt said...

I could be either of those voices.